


That'll buff out...

by italics_of_uncertainty



Series: The Impala [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Car Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Inanimate Object Porn, Inanimate Objects, Incest, Literally Sex With A Car, M/M, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Other, Outdoor Sex, Sex on a Car, Sex with a Car, Sibling Incest, Touching, car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 11:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/italics_of_uncertainty/pseuds/italics_of_uncertainty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole fandom ships Dean/Impala. I'm just doing my small part to encourage that kink. Mostly brother-fucking, but quite a lot of Dean getting off on the car too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That'll buff out...

It was a little too easy to let Sammy talk him into it the second time, and the third… He’s almost lost count by the time he finds himself taking the turn onto a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, driving just far enough off the main road so as to be all but invisible to anyone passing by. It’s nothing but grassland out here, and when he parks the car, switches off the headlights, it’s so dark he can hardly see anything at all for a moment; the moon has set, and the stars are faint pinpricks in an endless black sky. As he looks out the window, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, he feels a soft breeze rustling through the tall grass, the sound of summer insects growing to a quiet roar in the sudden silence. 

Sam leans close, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder, whispering, “Get out.”

It’s always been in the car, all the times they’ve fucked, like some unspoken agreement was writ that first night; this is alright, so long as it’s here. Brothers, family, home. Those mornings when Sam steps out of the shower, still dripping wet, thin motel towel barely hiding his hard-on, Dean has always closed his eyes, looked away, rubbed one out in the shower or waited until Sam’s gone to fetch breakfast. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t considered inviting Sam to curl up beside him, hasn’t wanted to follow him into the shower, but it’s always just not seemed right, no matter how tempting, and he’s figured some lines just aren’t meant to be crossed. 

There’s a protest already on his lips, but then Sammy reaches down and starts stroking him through his jeans, smirking as he squeezes just a little too hard, and Dean closes his eyes, grits his teeth, grips the steering wheel tight, familiar hard curves feeling almost supple beneath his hands. He takes a deep breath and reaches for the door, catching the handle without even looking, and once his boot hits the ground, gravel crunching softly underfoot, that’s it. Sam pushes him gently but insistently out into the cool night air, sliding out behind him, leaning over to grab the duffle bag from the backseat as he goes, and Dean looks around, the memory of this place, the place they finally broke that last rule already indelible, unforgettable, etched somewhere in the back of his skull. 

Sam trails his hand along the rise of the front quarter panel, fingers sliding across that sharp arch almost like a lover’s caress, and Dean shivers with anticipation. Sammy might not share his, well, he’s calling it admiration, of the Impala, but he doesn’t seem to judge the way Dean responds to the car; he certainly isn’t above using it to his advantage. Sam has reached the front of the car, and he’s biting his lip, playing coy as he traces the chrome accent along the edge of the hood, fingers lingering at that little widow’s peak at the center. 

Dean can’t quite catch his breath for watching, he can almost feel Sam’s touch on his skin, can almost feel that gorgeous, sleek chrome beneath his own hands. He’s there beside Sam before he’s even thought to move, and Sam pushes him back against the hood. Dean throws his hand back to catch himself, breath going a little thready at the kiss of warm steel against his palm, and he slides his free hand down along the strong curve of Sam’s waist, slips his fingers beneath Sam’s shirt, tracing his fingers along Sam’s skin as it prickles to gooseflesh in the night air, feeling the rise and fall of Sam’s breathing, counterpoint to the soft ticking of the engine as it cools, both slow and steady, even though his own heart is racing. 

Sam bends down, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s, dragging him into a wet kiss even as Dean pulls him down atop himself, arching his hips, and Sam leans into it, grinding their hips together, rutting against him with no real rhythm, as if he can’t keep himself from it. Dean wouldn’t want him to stop, except that it’s a little hard to get his fingers beneath the waistband of Sam’s jeans like this, even harder to slip that first button, but he manages it soon enough, puts his arm at a truly awkward angle getting his hand into those jeans, and he’s rewarded with a fistful of his brother’s cock for his trouble. Sam huffs and bucks into Dean’s grip, closing his eyes, mouth going slightly slack as Dean strokes him. 

It’s so easy now for both of them, so natural that Dean almost wishes Sammy had caught him jacking off in the car years ago, had just crawled on top of him one of those nights when they were stretched out on the hood, enjoying the warmth and the cool night air; shoved his tongue down his throat, slid his hand down the front of his jeans and made him come right there. They could have had this so long ago, if either one of them had ever thought to want it, and he wishes they had, because it’s better than anything he’s ever felt. Everything he loves in the world is right here; his brother and this car, no one to come between them, nothing but the tall grass and the empty night sky. 

It’s so easy that he doesn’t even resist when Sam pulls back and turns him towards the car, pushes him down against the hood, laying him out flat against warm steel, pressing up close and making him spread his legs so that he has to rest his knee on the grill, almost needs to wedge his boot into the groove of the bumper to keep some semblance of balance. He digs his fingers into the air vent, clutching at that ridge so he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall, and he can feel the heat still rising from the engine; it’s like touching some secret place, like getting his hand between a girl’s legs but somehow better, more obscene, cleaner and dirtier all at once, and he strokes along the edges of the intake, petting her as if she could get some pleasure from this too, wanting to make her come, wanting to make her moan and clutch at him, shuddering just as hard and desperate as he does for her.

Sam leans down, whispering, “Go on,” like he can read his mind or something, and Dean hates that he’s so obvious sometimes, but he also really, really doesn’t care right now. He licks at the paint, tasting dirt and god knows what other grime from the road, but he doesn’t care; she’s a masterpiece in steel and chrome, sturdy and reliable and more giving than he has any right to ask. Sam moans to watch him and so he does it again, tongue darting along that seam between hood and air scoop, lips grazing against cool chrome, cheek pressed against still-warm steel, and he shudders as Sam strokes his back, that big hand so heavy and reassuring. Dean shifts, trying to get his brother’s hand against his skin, and Sam grabs the hem of his teeshirt, pulls it up across his shoulders. 

Dean can’t quite bite back the whimper as he lays back down, pressing his bare chest against the hood, skin prickling in the night air, nipples hard and sensitive against the smooth enamel. Sam has reached around and is grabbing at him roughly, fondling him through his jeans. The friction of cotton and denim against his cock is driving him crazy, but he doesn’t have to wait long before Sam finally pulls his jeans down around his knees. 

Sam steps away to rummage in the duffel, which leaves Dean bent over the hood of his car with his bare ass hanging out in the cool air; it’s simultaneously exciting and embarrassing, and he isn’t sure which feeling to go with, so he settles for relief when he feels Sam’s strong hands back on his ass, half-massaging, half-groping, digging those thumbs deep into the muscle, making him squirm and arch into it. 

Sam makes a sort of low growl, and Dean tenses in expectation of the hard slap across his ass that always follows that sound, exhaling into that now familiar burn, sighing and burying his face in his arm as little tingles of excitement go sparking up his spine. His cock is pinned between his belly and the car, the steel is still warmer than his own skin, becoming slick with his arousal. The edge of the hood bites into his hip, but he only hisses when Sam shoves him roughly forward, grinding his hips against it, spreading him open, making him clutch at the air intake, scramble against the bumper for a bit of traction. 

He’s expecting the cold slick of lube, but when he feels Sam’s hot breath against his skin, he freezes up, and it’s almost instinct to draw away. Blow jobs are one thing, but this is too much; hedonistic and dirty and wrong, and the anticipation is killing him. Sam just grabs him by the hips and spreads him open with his thumbs as he leans down, tongue hot and wet, flicking inside him, strong and nimble, and there’s not a thing he can do to stop it, because clenching down only makes it feel better, only makes Sam lick deeper, moaning softly against his skin. He whimpers, caught in a strange paroxysm of humiliation and pleasure; every time he squirms away, the sticky slick enamel of the hood catches him by the cock, just the perfect amount of friction to make him want more, and when he tries to catch his breath from that, tries to pull back, his brother’s tongue is waiting for him, sultry and insistent, and so shamefully good. 

It doesn’t take much to drive him nearly to tears, he’s gasping and shivering, and not from the cold, because he’s sweating, his shirt is clinging to his shoulders, the hood feels slippery beneath his chest. His cock is aching, throbbing with every little shift and twitch, and his ass feels so loose and easy, like he’s been fingered for hours, slow and gentle. Sam has buried his face in him, and he’s eating him like he would a girl, breath lurid against his skin, tongue tripping along and teasing little shivers of pleasure from the strangest places. 

It’s completely demeaning, and the worst of it is that he loves it; he’s going to be begging for it every chance he gets. When Sam finally pulls away, he’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed, but he stretches, taking his first deep breath in what feels like eternity. He hears Sam unzipping his jeans, feels his hard cock press against his ass as he lines himself up, and he chokes on his breath as Sam slowly penetrates him, pinning him against the hood as he bottoms out, finally leaning his full weight against him with a sigh. Dean is too aroused, too easy for it to really hurt, but Sammy is thick, and the slow burn of that stretch leaves him whimpering, pressed up against the windshield, breath fogging the glass with each sharp, shallow gasp. 

“Mmm,” Sam purrs, rocking his hips, “Feels so good.” 

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Dean mumbles against the windshield. 

“Mmm hmm,” Sam murmurs, biting softly along the back of Dean’s neck, fucking him slowly, using him like he’s some kind of toy. Each deep stroke pushes Dean further against the glass, until his neck is strained and he’s pushing back against Sam, trying to straighten out, but the way he has to arch his back just makes each stroke deep enough to make him shudder. Sam is taking it so easy, like they have all the time in the world, like he wasn’t already half-crazy with need by the time Sam was done tongue-fucking him, and he still can’t find any traction, still can’t really get a grip on anything; he’s just slowly scrabbling beneath his brother, trying to hook his boot against the bumper, something. Sam shifts slightly, reaching up and holding them in place, grunting softly as Dean clenches down around him, shuddering. 

Sammy has maneuvered Dean so that his cock is rubbing along the ridge of the hood, a perfect little channel that feels purpose built for him and him alone. It’s the most amazing thing he’s ever felt, this almost gentle curve, smooth and warm, slick with his sweat and desire, and there’s a little give in the steel every time Sam shifts their weight; it’s like he’s fucking her, like she’s arching up against him. Sam is so hard inside him, but he’s so slick, so loose and turned on, it makes the slide so easy it’s like nothing he’s ever felt, less like being fucked and more like being made whole… and that’s such an uncomfortable thought he’s just not going there ever again. 

Dean dips his head against the intake and takes a deep breath, concentrating on the cool night air and the scent of dry summer grass, of gasoline and engine oil and Sam’s cheap cologne. His shin is bumping up against the edge of the hood with every little movement, and it’s sore enough he knows already it’s going to bruise, but it’s exactly the little piece of hard reality he needs to pull himself back from whatever dreamy haze Sammy has fucked him into; he clenches down against Sam’s cock, arching hard. Sam groans, clutching at him, shuddering and apparently closer than either of them realized, because shudder turns into a halting, desperate rhythm as he tries to hold back the tide, gasping against the back of Dean’s neck, his low, breathy moans muffled against dark hair. 

Dean moans and clenches down, fraught and almost overwrought, trembling as Sam spills inside him, but he’s just not there yet, and he doesn’t know why, thinks maybe it’s just not going to happen, until he hears Sam’s voice, strung-out and thready, barely a whisper, saying his name again and again, “Dean… Oh god, Dean…” 

It’s just the most provocative little kick of wrong, that his baby brother is coming with his name on his lips. It reminds him that they’re actually doing this, that it isn’t a dream or a fantasy, that it’s real and that Sammy is just as caught up in it as he is. 

He grabs Sam’s hand and shifts, dragging that hand to his cock, shivering at the creeping wetness between his legs as Sam slips out, biting back a moan to feel Sam’s hand on his cock, so warm and strong and stroking him just right, like he knows exactly what he wants, exactly how to give it to him, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of just a few weeks. He buries his face in his arm and whines, trembling as Sam strokes him into the sort of orgasm that almost feels like it drags his soul out of his body, like he’s floating between worlds for that brief moment between when it overtakes him and when he finally has to breathe again, has to come back down, has to hold on and shudder through, until it leaves him whimpering on the hood of his car, suddenly feeling the aches and bruises of the day, cold and shivery and sticky with half-dried sweat.

Sam rolls over to the side and pulls him close, so they’re both laying on their backs, looking up at the night sky, and for just a moment, all their troubles feel like they’re nothing more than that sprinkling of stardust glittering in the endless, infinite, summer night sky.


End file.
